


Seeds

by Irelando



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Ace Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Multi, Nux Lives, Post-Movie(s), Slow Burn, Valkyrie lives, because happy endings are important to me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irelando/pseuds/Irelando
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Green Place is more than just water and growing things. It's hope. It's the promise of a better world than twisted metal and bloodstained sand. </p><p>Killing Immortan Joe was only the first step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows how to deal with pain. In the wasteland, everything hurts, and soon it becomes as normal as sand in his boots and bright sun in his eyes. But the feeling in his chest as he stood on that platform, the warmth of Furiosa leaning heavily against him, the way the last Vuvalini patted him on the back as she climbed down from the driver’s seat, those he doesn’t know how to deal with. For a moment, as the water crashed down over the rocks and he reached with the others to help a Wretched woman onto the platform, he felt like he belonged.
> 
> So he runs.

The Wretched are pushing, shoving, jostling, faces turned up towards Furiosa like flowers to the sun. Part of Max wants to turn and join them, to see her standing whole and alive with his blood coursing in her veins, but he’s already looked once and he’s afraid if he does it again he might not have the strength to look away.

So he keeps moving, against the tide of the crowd. Someone once told him moving against a crowd was like swimming upstream, but neither has ever been hard for Max. It’s all about lateral motion, ceding the coveted space you’re standing in and slipping through the cracks. The only hard part is the way the Sprog keeps flickering among the ragged faces of the crowd.

_Where are you going, Max?_

Away. Away from this place where pain has suddenly turned to sharp, unyielding hope. He knows how to deal with pain. In the wasteland, everything hurts, and soon it becomes as normal as sand in his boots and bright sun in his eyes. But the feeling in his chest as he stood on that platform, the warmth of Furiosa leaning heavily against him, the way the last Vuvalini patted him on the back as she climbed down from the driver’s seat, those he doesn’t know how to deal with. For a moment, as the water crashed down over the rocks and he reached with the others to help a Wretched woman onto the platform, he felt like he belonged.

Max is a fighter, but he doesn’t know how to fight the way his heart pounded against his ribcage in fear of losing that (and maybe something other than fear he doesn’t have a name for anymore). Here, he has to be Max, and he’s not sure he remembers how. Out there in the wastes, he’s just another Road Warrior. He can do that.

So he runs.

\--

He takes a car from Joe’s stash, from the few (the worst) left behind for the War Boys too sick to chase Furiosa. He picks the one least likely to draw scavengers. It’s a clunker by War Boy standards, but it’ll do the job. The hafts of those explosive spears stick up like quills from the back, and Max almost tosses them aside before his instincts kick back in. Resources like those are too precious to waste.

A clunker it might be, but the engine rumbles reassuringly as he coaxes it to life. He hits the gas, feels the crunch as the tires dig into the sand, and roars out into the desert. He doesn’t look into the rearview mirror until he’s sure the Citadel has faded from sight.

_Where are you going, Max?_

If he looks at the empty seat beside him, the Sprog will be there. He needs both hands on the wheel, so he keeps his eyes on the road as he shifts gears and speeds further towards the horizon.

\--

It’s full dark before his hallucinations begin in earnest. He’s lost in the purr of the engine when the Sprog suddenly appears on the hood.

_Max._

He shakes his head.

_Where are you going?_

The Sprog flashes closer, and then it’s not the child’s face, but Furiosa’s, white from blood loss and swollen from battle.

Sand sprays from his tires, rubber scraping across the sand. Max turns into the spin and rides it out, hands white-knuckled on the wheel until the tires catch again and he’s back in control. He hits the brakes. His heart thumps painfully against the inside of his ribs, a staccato beat in his ears below the engine’s basso rumble.

_Max._

Where is he going? He leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Furiosa again, white as a War Boy. He opens his eyes. A War Boy.

Max puts the car in gear and hits the gas.

\--

The rising sun casts sharp shadows over the canyon walls, alternating streaks of darkness and red, red stone. Max cuts the engine at the first set of rocks, so its rumble won’t draw out the surviving bikers. The Sprog flickers at the entrance to the canyon. Max follows her.

The wreckage is about how he remembers it. The guitar hangs sadly from one bungee cord above the overturned cab of the War Rig. Beyond that, it’s just rubble, rocks and twisted metal and a few brown patches of drying blood. Max stops to study the cab, compares it to the little buggy he pulled the War Boy from after the sandstorm.

One window is facing him, bent but visible. Max crouches next to it, knee creaking, and peers inside. For a moment, it looks as though his instincts have failed him. Nux hangs suspended between the wheel and the seat, upside down, and his eyes are closed. Then the seat creaks with Nux’s slow breath. Max gives a satisfied grunt.

Nux opens his eyes. For a moment, the two men just look at each other. Max grunts again. “Think that’s a new record.”

The War Boy looks bewildered. Max searches for a moment, gestures vaguely. “Four times.”

Comprehension. And then, of all things, Nux starts to laugh. Max doesn’t join him, but he does smile a little.

“Four times I’ve seen the gates and been turned away,” Nux says breathlessly, eyes bright as the clear morning sky overhead. He pauses. Then, surprised, “I’m glad.”

Max nods. “Good.” He grunts, nodding to the crumpled dashboard. “Stuck?”

Nux nods. “Think my leg’s broken. I can’t push.”

Max reaches out and Nux does the same, grasping each other’s wrists (just skin now, Max notes, the paint worn away). He starts to pull. Nux’s face goes as white as it used to be with pain, but he doesn’t make a sound and Max doesn’t stop. Finally, Nux spills onto the sand. Max leaves him to catch his breath while he studies the leg. It’s bad. It’s a miracle the jagged end of the War Boy’s femur hasn’t broken through the skin, and the skin below the break is gray and mottled.

He looks at Nux. “Might lose it.”

Nux just grins. “I’m alive.” His head hits the sand with a thump. He stares up at the sky above in unabashed wonder. “Oh, what a lovely day.”

The leg needs medical attention, Max knows, and there’s only one place to get it.

Between the two of them, they get Nux to his feet. He can hobble, leaning heavily on Max, and so they make their way slowly back to where Max left the car.

Nux lets out a sigh at the sight of it. “Never thought I’d be so happy to see that clunker. I thought you’d have better taste in cars, blood—“ He stops. They hobble in silence for a moment.

 _Max_ , the Sprog whispers.

“Max,” Max repeats, and hitches Nux’s arm a little more firmly over his shoulders. “My name is Max.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have most of another chapter written. I'm seeing this more as a series of linked post-movie vignettes than anything with an actual overarching plot, but who knows.
> 
> Tags will update as we go!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max nods. “You did good. They have the Citadel.”
> 
> The War Boy grins. “Then it was a good death.”
> 
> “It’ll be a better life,” Valkyrie says from the back seat. Max imagines the look on Capable’s face when she sees her War Boy and nods his agreement.

Max has just gotten Nux settled in the passenger seat when he hears the soft crunch of footsteps on the sand behind him. He has one of the explosive spears up and ready to throw before it registers that the steps are slow and uneven, like limping.

And then he recognizes the woman raising her hands in the universal sign of peace, her long black hair tangled with sand and blood. “You,” he says.

“Me,” Valkyrie confirms. Max lowers the spear. She’s favoring one side, he notices as she limps towards him. Probably her ribs.

It’s tempting fate to stand around chatting, so he helps Valkyrie into the backseat without further ado. She winces and hisses through her teeth as she bends to get in, but she does it. Max gets behind the wheel.

The canyon wall is fading in the mirrors by the time she speaks. “I found this on the far side of the wreck.”

Something lands in Max’s lap. Nux takes it from him, turning it over in his hands. It’s a piece of Furiosa’s arm, mangled but recognizable.

“Did she make it?” Nux asks like he’s afraid of the answer. “Her side…”

Her ghost-pale face flashes in front of Max again. He shakes it away. Valkyrie’s face falls in the rearview mirror. “No!” Max says, too loud. Nux jumps. Max hits the palm of his hand on the steering wheel and grunts in frustration. “She’s fine. Well. She made it.”

The Valkyrie goes limp with relief. “Good,” she says, “I left too many sisters behind already.”

“Did everyone else?” Nux asks.

Max nods. “You did good. They have the Citadel.”

The War Boy grins. “Then it was a good death.”

“It’ll be a better life,” Valkyrie says from the back seat. Max imagines the look on Capable’s face when she sees her War Boy and nods his agreement.

\--

At night, the Citadel is a beacon. Three huge stone buttes rising high above the wasteland, the skull emblazoned on the largest lit by scavenged searchlights. It looks just like it did the day Max was dragged in in chains. He shakes the memory off, listens to the rumble of the engine (a little less smooth after their run-in with the surviving Buzzards just before sundown), runs his hands across the cool metal of the wheel.

Nux sleeps, slumped against the door. Max drives as easy as he can. The boy never complained, but that leg was getting worse by the hour. It had to hurt. Let him sleep through the pain as much as he could.

He stirs when Max shuts the engine off, peering blearily out through the windshield. “Where are the watchers?” he asks, voice still muddy with sleep. Valkyrie leans between the two front seats, searching.

Max doesn’t answer right away. The only people he can see are a few huddled lumps where Wretched sleep on the sand But the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end, so all he says is “Wait here.” And he gets out of the car.

He shuts the door behind him and squints towards the silhouettes of the winch platforms raised high out of reach. He raises his hands behind his head and waits.

Nothing. The car creaks behind him, a door opening and shutting. Valkyrie limps up next to him. “Where are they?”

Max shrugs. Under the soft sound of the wind over the sand, he thinks he can hear whispering. He just doesn’t know if it’s real. “Hear that?” he asks.

Valkyrie listens. She takes a step forward, spreading her arms as far to the sides as her damaged ribs will allow. “I am the Valkyrie,” she calls, voice echoing off the stones, “one of the Vuvalini, sister to Furiosa of the Citadel.”

Furiosa’s name sets off a flurry of whispers, and a moment later a War Pup’s head appears from behind a boulder. He can’t be more than ten, and still sports the remnants of white powder at the corn of his head and black smudges around his eyes. He looks at Max. “You killed Immortan.”

Max shakes his head. “Furiosa did that.”

“But you helped,” Valkyrie says. Max nods. The pup looks unsure.

“Is that you, Tick?”

Max glances behind him to see Nux’s head poking out the passenger side window. The War Boy opens the door and manages to struggle to his feet. “Tick, it’s me. Nux!”

“Nux!”

“Nux’s back!”

“But I heard—“

“I’m gonna get Toast,” Tick announces, and bolts back towards the base of the rock. More heads pop up around them, and though some of the pups are clutching guns, they’re holding them more like teddy bears than weapons meant to kill.

Max goes back and helps Nux to the front of the car, where he can lean on the hood to take the weight off his leg. The limb is completely gray, even in the moonlight, and beads of sweat gleam on Nux’s dirt-smeared head. But he doesn’t complain.

As excited as the pups seem, they keep their distance. Max leans on the hood beside Nux and listens to them chatter, a welcome change from the usual noise inside his head. And then a voice cuts through:

“Nux!”

A familiar flare of red hair catches the moonlight, Capable slipping and skidding in the sand until she stops a bare foot away from Nux, who struggles upright. The War Pups hush. The only sound is the whispering wind.

“I. Uh,” Nux stammers out. He shoots Max a panicked look.

Capable just laughs and throws her arms around him. He yelps, in surprise or pain, and she just hugs him closer. Slowly, almost reverently, he puts his arms around her waist. One of her hands cradles the back of his head like it’s more precious than guzzoline. He buries his face in her shoulder.

“Valkyrie!” Another voice calls. This time it’s Toast, and the two women greet each other with one of those forehead touches, just as fervent as Nux and Capable’s embrace.

“Thought you’d left for good,” the Dag says from in front of Max. She’s dirty, brown smears on her knees, hands, and cheeks, but she’s got her peculiar little smile on her face.

Max considers. Clears his throat. “Me, too.”

“What happened?” Toast asks Valkyrie. “The People Eater…”

Valkyrie snorts. “I heard that bastard’s gas-guzzler coming just before it hit. Started to duck, but he still caught me pretty good.” She shifts and winces. “When I came across your Fool in the canyon, I’d never been so happy to see a man.”

“You went back?” Toast asks Max.

Max grunts. “The Rig wasn’t so broken. Compared to the sandstorm.”

“You got antiseed in that leg?” Dag asks Nux. “Looks like it’s dying.”

Toast takes one look at it and calls for the pups to bring a stretcher. It’s not until they’re on their way up a narrow staircase, a mob of pups carrying Nux and Capable and Dag helping Valkyrie that Max has a chance to catch Toast’s eye.

He doesn’t have to say anything. “I’m sure all this mess will wake her up,” she says, “She’ll come down to see what the trouble is.”

Max nods. They climb on, a pocket of silence amid the chattering pups.

Something bumps Max’s knee, hard enough to draw a surprised hiss of pain. He looks down into a pair of uncertain brown eyes. The War Pup grabs his leg again to keep upright as a couple of larger pups shove past, then lets go with a haste that suggests she’s been struck for less.

Max holds out a hand to the pup. She takes it, and he swings her up behind him. She’s lighter than the pack he used to carry, no trouble at all, even if his sore muscles protest the extra effort. She’s careful not to wrap her arms too tightly around his neck, but she holds on.

Out of the corner of his eye, Max can see Toast smiling. He grunts, hikes his passenger up a little higher, and they climb on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have the next two chapters written. Because Mad Max has taken over my brain.
> 
> Up next: Furiosa!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Furiosa knows even before she looks who she’ll see. Even so, something inside her clicks into place when she meets Max’s eyes.

Furiosa is not a deep sleeper. Never has been. Deep sleepers don’t last long in this world, especially in Immortan Joe’s Citadel.

That being said, she’s learned to ignore the usual night time noises: the footsteps of guards, the distorted echoes of faraway voices, insomniac pups playing in the halls. But when the third set of pups goes thundering past her door, voices high and tight with excitement, Furiosa figures something must be up.

Her side aches, a constant reminder of how close to death she came. She can see out of both eyes now, at least, even if one is still squinted from the swelling. She levers herself upright, takes a moment to catch her breath, and stands.

The sound bounces oddly through the tunnels in the rock, but she’s had plenty of practice telling which direction the trouble is. She follows the echoes towards what used to be the Organic Mechanic’s workroom, now renamed by Eir to just the infirmary.

It’s well-lit, expensive electric light rather than flickering firelight. Furiosa frowns. Electricity is a commodity – someone must be hurt if they’re using it at this hour.

She stops in the doorway to catch her breath and take in the room. Eir is bent over a form on one of the benches, rattling off instructions to a nodding Capable as the Dag and Cheedo watch.

Someone stands up from a closer bench. Furiosa’s breath catches in her throat. For an instant, the pain in her side is nothing, and she crosses the room in two quick strides to press her forehead against the Valkyrie’s.

“You’re alive,” she says when they pull apart, her hand still cupping the back of the other woman’s head. Some part of her isn’t convinced that she’s really awake, but Valkyrie’s skin is warm and solid against hers. 

Valkyrie smiles and nods, her hands sliding down to Furiosa’s shoulders. “You look like hell,” she says, the words fond.

“You should’ve seen the old bastard before the Wretched ripped him to shreds,” Toast chimes in from the bench where Valkyrie was sitting. “Furiosa did him good.”

“Ripped his face clean off,” the Dag agrees.

Furiosa knows she’s grinning, the triumph of staring into Joe’s eyes as he died a fierce heat in her chest. Valkyrie grins back.

“This leg’s a lost cause,” Eir announces matter-of-factly. “It’s gonna have to go.” She straightens, and Furiosa sees the War Boy’s—Nux’s—face as he nods shakily.

Their eyes meet, and he grins uncertainly. “I’ll just make a shiny new one, yeah?”

Furiosa smiles a little, nods. Then she sees the leg, misshapen and atrophied, dead from just above the knee to his toes. There’s no way he walked from the crash to the Citadel on that.

She turns back to Valkyrie. “How did you get here?”

Valkyrie nods to the other doorway. Furiosa knows even before she looks who she’ll see. Even so, something inside her clicks into place when she meets Max’s eyes.

She limps across the room to him. A fresh line of drying blood trickles down around the outside of his eye, but otherwise he looks just like he did when he slipped away through the crowd. Not so surprising, when she realizes that it was only two days before. It feels like a lifetime.

He waits for her in the doorway. She doesn’t blame him, sees the way his eyes flicker briefly to the cages they haven’t had time to take down from the ceiling, remembers him hung like an ornament on the front of a car with his life draining away. So she comes to him, stops before him, and for a moment neither of them say anything.

Max shifts. He leans forward a little. Furiosa lets him, until his sweat- and dirt-streaked forehead bumps gently against hers. His eyes close.

Part of Furiosa wants to bring her hand up to cup the back of his neck, make it a proper greeting, but his hands are at his sides, so she just leans her head into his. He hums, just a little.

She searches for words, but none of them seem right. She settles, eventually, for “Welcome back.”

If the way the corner of his mouth quirks up is any indication, he gets it. He hums again, then straightens, meeting her eyes for a moment before his gaze slides over her shoulder.

Only then does she hear the whispering behind her. She turns: the Dag, Cheedo, and Toast abruptly cut off, nudging each other. Capable hides giggles behind her hand. Furiosa purses her lips to hide a smile and turns back to Max. “You must be tired.”

He grunts the affirmative. Furiosa ignores the renewed whispers behind her. “Come with me.”

She and the Valkyrie exchange a look before she leads Max away. It’s a long, roundabout route, but she won’t make him walk through the infirmary if he doesn’t want to, and she could use the exercise.

By the time they’ve climbed back up to Furiosa’s room, she’s breathing hard, and the wound in her side is like the knife’s just broken the skin. She stumbles at the top of the stairs and Max’s hands are at her shoulders, steadying without gripping too hard. She straightens. He lets go, but he stays close. Furiosa doesn’t mind.

She stops in front of her door, marked with a piece of scrap metal. Max stops beside her. The rooms on either side of hers are empty, abandoned by War Boys who didn’t make it back from the Fury Road. She gestures to the door just beyond hers. “That room’s empty, if you want.”

Max grunts. “Okay.” He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look at her, either. She studies his face for a moment, remembering the way he slept in the cab of her War Rig, remembering more the way he woke ready to punch his ghosts in the face.

“I have a couch,” she says.

He hums, eyes her. “Is it okay?”

She smiles, and opens her door. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Capable sits on the floor beside him, her head at his shoulder, and holds his hand. She traces the outlines of his calluses, the scars across his knuckles. There’s a tension in his fingers at first, like he’s not sure if he should pull his hand back, but as the minutes drag on and her touch stays gentle, he relaxes.

“You have blood in your hair, dear.”

Capable starts, hand going automatically to touch her hair before she remembers that would only make the problem worse. She shrugs instead. “I’m not surprised.”

She picks up the last of the red-stained bandages and dumps them in the fire pit. The flames hiss. Capable glances at Nux, mercifully passed out since about two minutes into the procedure, but he doesn’t stir. It went well, or so Eir says, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch his face crumple in on itself as he fought to keep from screaming. He’d lost that fight.

Eir finishes cleaning the bone saw, its edge gleaming in the electric light, and gestures to Capable. “Come on, come clean up.”

She does, scrubbing her hands under the water until her skin is pink and raw. She combs her fingers through her hair, drying blood flaking away. Even when her skin hurts from the washing, there are still dark half-moons under her fingernails. They’re just going to have to wait.

“You have a strong stomach,” Eir says, drying the saw absently.

“I’ve seen worse,” Capable says. After their headlong ride down the Fury Road, she’s not sure there’s a part of the body she hasn’t seen torn apart.

“It’s different,” the Valkyrie says tiredly. Capable looks at her. She’s still sitting by Nux’s head, though she hasn’t had to hold his shoulders down in quite a while. “It’s different when you’re not fighting for your life.”

Capable nods. The smell of blood is still in the air, making her stomach twist itself in knots. She goes to Nux’s head. Valkyrie scoots to make room, puts her arm around Capable’s shoulders as the younger woman puts her hand gently to Nux’s forehead.  “He’s hot,” she says.

“Night fevers,” Eir says. “Something in that shit they’ve been putting in their skin. Too soon to be from infection.”

Capable smooths her hand over his bare skull. Eir comes over and checks him herself, nods. “It’s nothing to worry about. Not yet.” She pauses. “You planning on staying with him?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble. I’m not as young as I used to be.” She hands Capable a bottle. “If he gets worse, give him a couple of these. If it’s bad, you know where I am.”

Capable nods, setting the bottle in her lap. Eir puts a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll make it. Tough as nails, he is. Survived Walhalla four times, didn’t he?”

That’s true. Capable smiles slightly. “Thanks.”

Eir knocks their foreheads together gently, then straightens and holds out a hand to Valkyrie. They hit the lights on the way out, leaving Capable in the flickering firelight and the dull blue predawn leaking in through the holes in the ceiling.

She doesn’t know how much later it is when Nux’s sudden gasp wakes her. She straightens, rubbing the back of her neck where it twinges from the awkward angle, and blinks down at Nux’s head in her lap. “How are you feeling?”

He swallows. It looks like it hurts. “A little thirsty?”

“Hold on.” She moves carefully out from under him and grabs a cup of clean water from the faucet in the corner. It takes a little maneuvering, but she helps him sit up and supports him with an arm around his skinny shoulders while he holds the water in shaking hands and drinks.

When he’s finished, he lies back down. Capable sits on the floor beside him, her head at his shoulder, and holds his hand. She traces the outlines of his calluses, the scars across his knuckles. There’s a tension in his fingers at first, like he’s not sure if he should pull his hand back, but as the minutes drag on and her touch stays gentle, he relaxes.

“I’m sorry about your leg,” Capable says after a while.

He lets out a breath, like he’s thinking. “I’m not.”

She looks over her shoulder at him. “No?”

“Means I’m alive, doesn’t it?” He says, sparks of reflected firelight in his eyes. “Besides, now I get to build a new one. I’ve got ideas, you know. I bet it’ll be better even than Furiosa’s.”

She raises her eyebrows incredulously. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! See—“ and he’s off, babbling excitedly and gesturing in the air with his free hand like he’s drawing her schematics in the air. Capable leans her head back and watches. She only catches the odd word – pneumatic, something about counterweights, _chrome_ – but she likes the sound of his voice, likes how his pain and uncertainty gives way to sheer high-octane enthusiasm.

She listens until he talks himself right back to sleep. It’s not long before she follows him. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shakes his head. Stares at his plate for a long moment. “I can’t stay.”
> 
> The words "why not" almost slip out before she remembers the wild-dog look in his eyes behind the muzzle, the still-red brand on the back of his neck. He won’t have the words to answer her, and knowing why won’t make a difference. Promises he might not be able to keep about coming back won’t help either.
> 
> So she just nods. “I’ll get you some food to take with you.”

 When she wakes up the next morning, she spends some time staring at the ceiling wondering if she dreamed him coming back. Especially with Valkyrie in tow, it seems too good to be true. This world isn’t so kind.

But when she steps out of her bedroom, he’s still sprawled out on her couch, squinting at the sunlight streaming in through the window. She leans on the wall for a moment and looks at him. He looks relaxed, as much as he ever is, one arm folded behind his head as a pillow and the other nowhere near his gun. The blood from the cut on his forehead is crusted dry. She doesn’t ask how he slept. He’ll share his nightmares when he’s ready, and in the meantime she has her own to deal with.

Instead, she raises an eyebrow. “Hungry”

He grunts and levers himself to his feet, the brace around his knee squeaking. Dirt falls from his shirt, pattering on the stone floor. They both look at it for a moment.

He sits down across from her in the cantina an hour later, hair damp and sticking up in every direction. He has the same dirty leather jacket on, but the clothes underneath are clean. No doubt the former Milking Mother who’s taken charge of the bathing pool in what used to be the Vault had her pups spirit his old, torn clothes away. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it, digging into the plate she left for him with a gusto. She wonders how long it’s been since he’s tasted anything besides bugs, lizards, and bean paste.

She still isn’t used to the flavors of “real” food. Dag says it’s just bits from the gardens that are about to go bad, but Joe kept everything but bean paste and mother’s milk to himself and the wives, and the only Mother who remembers how to cook. The first thing the Wives ( _Sisters_ , Furiosa reminds herself, they’ve chosen a new name for themselves) did, they told Furiosa when she woke up the evening they claimed the Citadel, was open the stores. There’s enough squirreled away to last them until they can figure out how to sustain it.

Max eyes his empty plate like he’s thinking about licking it clean. “There’s more, if you want,” she says, the edge of a laugh in her voice.

He shakes his head. Stares at his plate for a long moment. “I can’t stay.”

The words _why not_ almost slip out before she remembers the wild-dog look in his eyes behind the muzzle, the still-red brand on the back of his neck. He won’t have the words to answer her, and knowing why won’t make a difference. Promises he might not be able to keep about coming back won’t help either.

So she just nods. “I’ll get you some food to take with you.”

\--

When the rumble of his engine fades from the air, Furiosa finds her way to the garage. She claims a table against the wall, a spot where the curves in the rock send a gentle draft across the back of her neck. She’s not used to it being so quiet; a few pups tinker with small projects in the spaces beneath desks and behind discarded engine blocks, but the garage floor itself is bare. Only oil streaks and skid marks left to show the work that was done here.

The garage is the one place she was allowed to go where the goal was to make something instead of destroying it, even if destruction was the ultimate goal. She supposes now the gardens count, too, but she’ll never feel as comfortable with dirt under her fingernails as she does with goggles on her eyes and grease on her skin.

The table is scattered with bits of scrap. She piles them to the side, gathers more bits and pieces, gears and a piston, her little stashes of supplies right where she left them. Funny how much things could stay the same, even when everything changed.

For the next hour, she pushes the pieces around, rebuilding her old arm in her mind and making the improvements she always wished she had time for. This time she can make fingers that can hold without crushing, a socket for her nub that doesn’t chafe the skin raw when the sand inevitably gets in. She gathers more parts.

She’s just finished the first finger when a cry goes up outside. She ignores it.

Then Toast shows up in the doorway. “You should see this.”

She follows the younger woman out onto the hot sand. A ragged bunch of War Boys, maybe half a dozen, stand clustered between several Mothers armed with rifles. Two lean heavily on their companions. Furiosa’s breath catches in her chest. Their faces are familiar, even if she’s never seen them before without bone-white skin. Then the one in front steps forward and clears his throat, eyes squinted under the black goggles hiked up on his forehead.

“Hey, Boss.”

Furiosa looks at him, and there are no words.

The Ace rubs his hand over his head, leaving streaks in the leftover white paint. He gestures over his shoulder. “Got any room for a few strays?”

“No room for War Boys here,” Cheedo says, stepping out from beside the Dag, though their fingers stay entwined. No one contradicts her.

Ace just nods. “Well, I got a few black thumbs. And I’m sure the rest of us can be good for something, given the chance.”

The Sisters look at Furiosa. She looks back, and says nothing. Her mind is racing, her blood pounding, and she doesn’t trust her own reactions.

The four women trade glances. Cheedo nods. Toast nods. Dag shrugs. Capable nods.

The tension bleeds away into the sand. Capable steps forward, beckoning to the two unsteady Way Boys. “Come on, you two, come with me.” They do, leaning on each other for support. The rest mill about uncertainly.

“Oh, come on then,” the Dag says. “I need holes dug for my tomato plants.” She leads them away, Cheedo at her side.

Toast comes over to Furiosa. “Where’s Max?”

“He left,” she says.

“He left? Is he coming back?”

Furiosa shrugs. She notices Ace hasn’t followed the others, instead squinting up at the water falling steadily from the pipes in the rock face.

Toast looks out over the desert for a moment, sighs, and turns her eyes skyward for an instant before looking back at Furiosa. “That smeg Corpus is still holed up in Joe’s old rooms.”

“You have a plan?” Furiosa asks.

“I was hoping you did.”

She shrugs again. “I’d shoot him.”

Toast frowns. “No unnecessary killing.”

Furiosa nods. “Then good luck.” And walks away.

She goes back to her worktable, checks to make sure the pistol she stashed underneath is still there. She waits.

Not five minutes later, the Ace ambles in through the door. He studies the empty room. “That Rig was a beauty. Shame to lose her.”

Furiosa spins on her stool to face him. “Are we gonna have a problem?” The words might be a challenge, but for the sheer exhaustion in her voice. She’s already mourned him once when she betrayed her team on the Fury Road.

“I hear you killed ol’ Joe,” Ace says, studying one of the grease marks on the floor.

“I did,” she says, “But not alone.”

The garage is quiet, all the pups gone to see the War Boys who made it back alive. Furiosa’s fingers itch for the gun.

“Eh,” he says finally, and spits. “Good riddance.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s it?”

He looks at her. She’s not used to seeing his eyes, usually hidden behind his omnipresent goggles. They’re two different colors. She’s never noticed before. “I had a long time to think about it on the way back,” he says. “I figure either he’s right about all that religious nonsense, and he’s in Walhalla, or he’s a lying bastard who deserves to rot in Hell. Either way, dead is dead.”

She nods. Pauses. “I’m glad you made it back.”

He laughs. “Me, too. Never did make a good War Boy that way, did I?” He sobers. “Next time, Boss, fill me in on the plan before the explosions get going, yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toast puts her hands on her hips. “Idiots.” She bangs the butt of the gun on the door. “If we wanted you dead, we’d just lock you in,” she yells, “Eat the food or don’t. We don’t have enough to waste on your stupid ego.”
> 
> Toast is all for leaving it at that, but Cheedo insists they try again. Charity, the Mother guarding the hallway, shakes her head. Her rifle lays across her lap, knitting needles clicking in her hands. “Let them rot,” she advises. “They have no place here.”
> 
> Everyone has a place here, Cheedo thinks.

“Corpus is a problem,” Toast says.

“He’s been locked in that room for a week,” Capable says.

Toast yanks dead plants out of the ground with such force that the dirt from their roots hits her in the cheek. “We can’t just leave him in there.”

“Why not?” Dag asks, digging through her bag of seeds. “I say lock him and his pet War Boys in, let the smegs starve.”

“That’s awful,” Capable says, pausing with her hands cupped over a freshly buried seed.

Dag snorts. “No worse than he’d do to us.”

“We’re better than that,” Toast insists.

Cheedo digs her trowel into the dirt, makes holes for the seeds in Capable’s pockets.

“Wouldn’t have to worry about them then, though, would we?” the Dag continues, that bitter tone in her voice that always makes a knot in Cheedo’s throat, even if she understands where it comes from.

Capable straightens, puffs the bangs out of her eyes. “What did Furiosa say?”

“To shoot him,” Toast says reluctantly.

“That works,” says the Dag.

“No,” Capable says, “No unnecessary killing.”

Toast nods. “That’s what I said.”

Capable sighs. “There must be another way.”

Cheedo sits back on her heels, staring out over the green gardens. “I have an idea.”

\--

Toast may know how to handle a gun, but she doesn’t look happy about it. She stares down the hallway at the big iron door at its end, the same white skull emblazoned on the cold metal that’s seared into the back of both of their necks. “You sure about this?”

Cheedo looks down at the tray in her hands. Her knuckles are white with tension, but at least the tray isn’t shaking. “No.”

She leads the way down the hallway. Toast follows her, gun ready. By the time they stop in front of the door, Cheedo’s heart is thumping in her ears. Toast’s knuckles are the same color as hers.

Cheedo sets the tray down with a deliberate clatter on the stone floor, the canteen of water sloshing noisily.

Dimly, she hears voices inside the room. The door doesn’t open. They retreat down the hallway.

The next day, the tray is overturned, the food smeared along the floor. The water is gone. Cheedo kneels to clean it up.

Over her, Toast puts her hands on her hips. “Idiots.” She bangs the butt of the gun on the door. “If we wanted you dead, we’d just lock you in,” she yells, “Eat the food or don’t. We don’t have enough to waste on your stupid ego.”

Toast is all for leaving it at that, but Cheedo insists they try again. Charity, the Mother guarding the hallway, shakes her head. Her rifle lays across her lap, knitting needles clicking in her hands. “Let them rot,” she advises. “They have no place here.”

_Everyone has a place here_ , Cheedo thinks.

The next day, the tray is clean. Cheedo replaces it with a full one. It’s not enough food for more than three people, if they stretch it, but no doubt Corpus has more stashed away inside.

“It’s not meant to be practical,” she tells Dag three days later in the garden, “It’s a peace offering.”

“I don’t think he’ll go for it,” she says, shaking dirt from her fingers. “Too loyal by half to the old bastard, and a coward to boot.”

Cheedo squares her shoulders before they can start to droop. “I’m not ready to give up yet.”

Dag stares at her plants for a moment, then shrugs. “Just don’t give him my share, yeah?” She gives a smile, a wry little twist of the mouth, and pats her stomach. “This little schlanger’s already eating enough off my plate.”

They work in silence until Cheedo manages to ask, “Do you want to get rid of it?” She would understand. All of them would.

“Thought about it,” Dag says, “But I figure if it turns out I’m carrying a warlord after all, there’ll be plenty of time to kill him later.”

“What if it’s a girl?” Cheedo asks.

“Then I hope she’s ugly,” Dag says without hesitation. Then, softer, “Safer that way.”

\--

The seventh time Cheedo bends down to put the tray on the ground, she hears a thump from behind the door. Toast’s gun snaps up, and by the sharp _clack_ from down the hall, Charity’s just as quick on the draw.

Another thump, and a _creak_. Cheedo straightens, tray clutched in her hands, and backs up until her shoulder touches Toast’s.

The door swings open, just a little. A War Boy’s head pops through the crack. Toast aims her gun square in the middle of his forehead. His eyes flicker from the barrel of the gun, to the tray in Cheedo’s hands, past them to where Charity stands at the end of the hall, then back to Cheedo.

He starts to speak and immediately dissolves into a coughing fit. Cheedo shifts the tray to one arm and offers him the water canteen with the other. He doesn’t take it, but he does swing the door open a little wider. “Corpus wants to talk,” he says hoarsely.

“This is a bad idea,” Charity warns from down the hall.

Cheedo squares her shoulders and steps forward. Toast does, too. “I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

They share a smile. Cheedo wonders if Toast’s heart is pounding like hers. She certainly looks more confident, but she’s always been the stoic one. They follow the War Boy inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone would be interested in beta-ing this story, let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He created a cult and starved people to death to get his way,” Toast snaps. “He stole people from their families, from their homes, and turned them into slaves to feed his ego.”
> 
> “He gave you a better life,” Corpus insists.

Toast is no warrior, not like Max or Furiosa (not yet), but she knows a little bit about tactics, and she knows a lot about calculating the odds.

They’re outnumbered ten to two – bad odds, but not as bad as she was expecting. Plus, while the War Boys are armed, the guns are holstered, or in one case being spun idly around a finger. There’s a chance, even if it’s only a slim one, that she and Cheedo could make it out before they could bring those weapons to bear. And, for once, Toast has her own weapon.  

“Oh, relax”, Corpus rasps from where his chair hangs by the window. “If I wanted to shoot you I’d have done it already.”

Toast doesn’t dignify that with a response. She just follows Cheedo as the younger Sister walks over to perch on the windowsill beside Corpus. Toast keeps her eyes on the rest of the room.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The hair on the back of Toast’s neck prickles. Cheedo doesn’t seem to notice the tension, or maybe she’s just ignoring it. _Makes sense_ , Toast thinks without rancor, _she never learned what it’s like to be a target._

Finally, Corpus grunts. “Bribing us with food, that was clever.”

“It wasn’t a bribe,” Cheedo says.

“No?”

“It was a peace offering.”

Corpus snorts. “Huh. Peace.” Both Toast and Cheedo meet his skeptical gaze, and neither looks away. He sneers. “What does the new Immortan think of your ‘peace’, huh?”

“Immortan is dead,” Toast says, “And there will never be another.”

“Call it what you like,” Corpus says, “But Furiosa took Pa’s place.”

“Your father’s place was as a tyrant,” Cheedo says. “None of us want that, including Furiosa.”

“He fed you, kept you clean of all that,” Corpus spits, waving a hand at the window. “Some tyrant.”

“He created a cult and starved people to death to get his way,” Toast snaps. “He stole people from their families, from their homes, and turned them into slaves to feed his ego.”

“He gave you a better life,” Corpus insists.

It’s all Toast can do not to smack the little schlanger across the mouth. “If you think that, then there’s no point in talking.”

The silence that follows is tense. The pistol is a reassuring weight in Toast’s hand. She sees a flash, like a memory, of squeezing the trigger and blowing a hole through Corpus’ smug face. _No unnecessary killing_ , she repeats to herself. She won’t shoot first.

Cheedo stands up. “A week ago – a few days ago – I agreed with you.” She turns to the rest of the room. “Any of you are welcome to join us, anytime you want. Leave your guns and the guards will let you past.”

“And then what?” One of them asks.

Cheedo smiles at him. “Come and find out.”

“And if we don’t?” Corpus challenges. “Gonna starve us out after all?”

“No,” Cheedo says, “As long as we have food, so will you. We won’t force you. You are people, not things, and people have the right to make their own decisions.”

“Pretty words. We’ll see if you can back them up.” Corpus snorts.

Cheedo just nods.

 _When did Cheedo get so strong?_ Toast wonders as she follows her out of the room. When did she get so _tall_ – huddled next to Dag, folded in on herself in the Vault, she always looked so small. But walking out of that room, shoulders square and head high, Toast thinks she might be the tallest of them all.

“Wait,” a voice says behind them when they’re only halfway to Charity, waiting at the end of the hall. The former Mother’s gun snaps up to point past Toast’s shoulder. Toast turns, flipping the safety on her pistol.

Two War Boys stand before the door, hands raised. They trade a glance. “We’re unarmed,” one of them says nervously.

“Let them past,” Toast says to Charity.

“Let anyone unarmed past,” Cheedo adds.

“You sure about that?” Charity sounds dubious, but she lowers her gun. The War Boys trade another uncertain glance. One of them starts to cough, harder and harder until he’s nearly bent double.

“Oh, come on then,” Charity says sharply. “Let’s get that looked at before you hack up your lungs.” The War Boys come closer, and Charity wrinkles her nose. “And get you a bath, to boot.”

“I’ll cover the door,” Toast says. Charity nods and heads off, the War Boys trailing behind her like ducklings from the picture books in the Vault. Toast sits down in Charity’s chair, and only then notices how Cheedo’s hands are trembling.

She reaches out and takes one of them, giving it a squeeze. “You did good in there.”

Cheedo smiles and squeezes back, standing a little straighter. “Thanks.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for the long wait. I have several more chapters written that should be up considerably faster than this one!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not enough.

Max goes back to where they fought the Buzzards. It’s good salvage, even if they couldn’t afford to stop when the War Boy was slowly dying in the passenger seat. He strips the wreckage for parts, sorts them into piles, pulls a mostly-intact V8 engine from one overturned car.

As he’s loading it into the backseat, he hears a sharp report echo through the empty desert air. He flinches hard and takes cover behind the door, gun in hand.

Nothing. No whoops, no screams, not even the rumble of a distant engine. Something warm and wet runs down his chin. His fingers find a cut – not a big one, nothing serious – on the underside of his jaw, and when he stands back up he sees a gleam of red on a sharp corner of the engine. The sound of his own pounding heart begins to fade from his ears. His chin starts to sting a bit. He swipes the back of his hand across is and goes back to salvaging.

Some of the war parties had to survive. It’ll take them weeks to skirt the mountains if they stay together, at least a seven days to clear the mess in the canyons with the Rock Riders harrying them from overhead. Valkyrie didn’t mention seeing them; maybe the bikers drove them the wrong way round. He can hope.

But they’re coming. One way or another. Surviving that long in the Wasteland is hard, but it’s easier with so many. They’re coming. The Citadel looms on the horizon, a huge, imposing target. The skull on the rocks might was well be a bulls-eye – by the time the war parties make it back, they’ll know Joe is dead, and his killer sits in those rocks.

Fanatics don’t take well to their God being killed. They need to be ready.

He hides the car in a ditch and slips into Gastown that night. Furiosa’s name echoes in a hundred different voices, washes over Max like waves as he sits in the corner with an untouched mug of moonshine. No one looks twice at another scruffy Road Warrior, especially not when he doesn’t have much on him worth taking.

This is something he can do. He listens to the crowd. Someone boasts about once an hour about taking the Citadel for themselves now that Joe’s gone, but it’s just empty talk, bravado, nothing concrete. They aren’t convinced that it isn’t a trap that Joe or the People Eater won’t come back and claim it from whoever happens to be sitting on it at the time.

Max leaves in the dead of night breathing a little easier. If Gastown’s not itching to attack, he doubts the Bullet Farm will be either. Furiosa and the others are clear, for now.

He stops with his hand on the roof of his car and his eyes on the glowing lump on the horizon.

It’s not enough. Not yet.

He spends most of the night driving to the Bullet Farm. He’s never been before. Why would he? He had plenty of bullets, and when he didn’t, he ran until he could find more.

The Farm turns out to be a pit surrounded on three sides by factories churning out bullets from the lead carved from the rock down in the depths. Black smoke belches into the sky; the sunlight that gets through is grimy and grey, leeching the color from the cars patrolling the perimeter. The people are even more twisted than the War Boys, covered in rock dust and hunched from their endless digging.

Max watches from a nearby dune until a flare goes up from one of the cars and it turns his way. His car is fast enough, and they don’t pursue him (very far). Good. They’re on the defense, unlikely to launch any kind of attack on the Citadel with their leader missing (dead, Max thinks, and remembers the heat of an explosion rolling over him).

It’s valuable information. His backseat is full of valuable salvage. Still, he imagines going back with what he has and his teeth itch. They don’t need him. He’s another mouth to feed and a lot of ghosts to haunt the halls in the rock.

He sits on the roof of the car and watches the sun set behind the Citadel, munching the last of the fresh food Furiosa gave him. He doesn’t go back. Not yet.

It’s a bad night. Furiosa’s not among his ghosts, not now that he’s seen her whole and healing, but there are plenty more to take her place. He jerks awake with the afterimage burned into his eyes, so Angharad’s face looks back at him from the darkened roof of his car.

He gets out, takes a deep breath of the cool night air. Every time he blinks, he sees her. If he’d been a little smoother, if he’d seen the rocks coming—

If he hadn’t shot her, in his fear and rage. Maybe she wouldn’t have slipped. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone under the wheels.

He shakes his head so hard it nearly topples him over. He can’t think that way. It’s in the past, and thinking about it just tears holes in a mind that’s barely holding together as it is.

A fire at night’s a dangerous thing in the wastes, so he keeps it small, hidden as close to his car as he dares. He digs in his pockets, comes up with a scrap of greying fabric. It’s nothing, just something to keep his hands busy, to keep him from losing himself. He takes out his needle, pricks the back of his hand, and starts to draw, poking carefully at the fabric spread out on his good knee.

When the sun rises, he packs up, gets back in the car, and drives on.


End file.
